Tragic Magic
Tragic Magic is an encounter in Orange Eyes. Enemies *Orc Shaman (1235 Gold, 152 XP, 95 Energy, 7 HP Normal) *Orc Soothsayer (1235 Gold, 152 XP, 95 Energy, 7 HP Normal) Transcript Introduction Even by the standards of so remarkable a battlefield, this isn't something you'd ever expected to see... "What're those sodding orcs doing? Cooking a bloody stew?" The question is valid, though you doubt it's anything so absurd and benign as that... Two orcs stand atop a mound, daubed in the painted symbols and bizarre talismans of orcish spellcasting. They're leaning over a cauldron, a great cast iron receptacle that's wider than either of their stocky frames. Emerald steam wafts from within, snaking its way skyward-accompanied by the occasional bursting bubble of similarly colored liquid. Bellow that little hillock, Nords clash with more of the greenskins. The orcs are trying to keep the Nords back, protecting whatever dark ritual the spellcasters are performing. One of the pair, a shaman from his garb, is shouting in his own language. He beckons to some of the other orcs - two of whom break away from the melee and move towards the mound. They're struggling with a thrashing Nord woman, half-pulling and half-carrying her along. The rest of the Nords throw themselves at the orcs with new ferocity as they see their clanswoman dragged to whatever fate awaits her, hacking and lunging. But for the moment at least the green line holds. More loud babble comes from the shaman. He's gesturing with a jagged knife now, urging them to hurry up. "They need human blood for their magic," you say. "Would orc blood work?" Tessa asks. Her sudden interest in the finer points of sorcery takes you by surprise. "No. If they're doing what I think they are, it would ruin the spell." "Good..." She notches an arrow to her bow. Conclusion The woman thrashes, claws, and kicks at her malefactors. But her efforts don't even slow them down. They're taking her up the hillock now, to where the shaman waits and waves his knife. Then Tessa's arrow hits. The entire tableau seems to freeze. The orcs bearing the woman stop in their tracks, and stare at the arrow stuck in the side of the shaman's neck. As for the shaman, he reaches a curious hand to the offending missile, as though wondering what it might be or where it could have come from. Blood spurt from the wound. Into the cauldron. Liquid surges upwards, a green geyser flying into the air -- a vertical torrent that seems far too large to ever have been confined in the cauldron's belly. It reaches an impressive height before exploding, bursting into an emerald cloud of moist gas that rains down upon you, the spellcasters, and the belligerents alike. The stench is appalling and indescribable. Your nose wrinkles. Your companions utter cries of protest. But the orcs don't get off so lightly. They're choking and spluttering, clutching their throats or else pressing their hand against watering eyes. When it comes to magic, it's rather important to use the right ingredients... This lesson is likely lost on Nord and orc alike, however. The former are too busy killing to heed it, and the latter too busy dying. Category:Orange Eyes